


The Witches of Southwyck

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-06-01
Updated: 1999-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-10 17:39:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11131644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived atDue South Archive. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDue South Archive collection profile.





	The Witches of Southwyck

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

The Witches of SouthWyck 

 

This story is about an urban witch who develops a *thing* for OFM. It  
in no way deals with anything evil, or satanic. It was written completely  
in fun and is not meant to seriously depict any religious or social  
group. Anyone with a moral aversion to a little hocus-pocusplease hit  
delete now. **Rated PG-13 for adult situations and language.**

In addition to the cast of Due South, borrowed from Alliance, Dr. Greene, from the NBC series ER, makes a brief appearance in this story. 

For every evil under the sun,  
There is a remedy, or there is none.  
If there be one, seek till you find it;  
If there be none, never mind it.  
Nursery Rhyme  
_____________________  


# The Witches of Southwyck 

Marna Hughes 

"What they doin' now, Vern?" Asked the shorter of the two men standing behind the six-foot wooden privacy fence that separated Vernon Simplot's back yard from Maryellen Moonstone's. "I cain't see over this dern fence." 

"Ain't sure what they're doin, Billyray," answered Vern. "Looks like they're dancin' 'round thet bonfire." 

Billyray gave a little jump that brought his eye level almost to the top board of the fence, but unfortunately, caused most of the beer in his long-neck to slosh out over his hand. "How many of 'em's over there?" 

It took Vern quite a while to count them. "I reckon there's thirteen," he said finally. 

The chanting began, a soft hum of female voices rising and falling, the words unintelligible. 

"What they doin' now," Billyray was scanning the area on his side of the fence for something to stand on that would enable him to see into the neighboring backyard. Spotting a planter on the patio, he hurried to drag the heavy object into position. 

While Billyray struggled with the planter, Vern watched the thirteen chanting women circle the fire, occasionally pausing to throw a dust like substance into the flames. The fire flickered in eerie blues and yellows then blazed into vivid brightness. 

Finally succeeding in getting the planter close to the fence, Billyray climbed onto it and grasped the boards, resting his chin on the wood. "What kinda clothes you suppose those is?" he asked referring to the cowled robes the women wore. The robes were all cream colored or white with one exception one was a dark scarlet, almost blood red. 

"Dunno," said Vern. "But ya cain't recognize nobody under them hoods." 

One of the women knelt and retrieved a silver goblet from the ground. Holding the cup toward the fire, she repeated an incantation and raised the goblet to her lips. 

"What's she doin' now, Vern?" whispered Billyray, wobbling on top the unsteady flower stand. 

"Drinkin' somethin'," answered Vern, taking another pull from his Coors bottle. 

"Whataya reckon they're drinkin'?" 

"Dunno, probably some kinda drugs." 

"What you two doin' out here?" A shrill voice from behind made both men jump. Billyray's precarious position on the plant stand rocked and sent him backwards onto the ground. Vern's wife stood at the back door, hands on hips, waiting for an answer. 

"Shhhhh," Vern said, turning back to the scene beyond the fence. 

"So, they're at it again, huh?" She said in disgust, eyeing the fallen Billyray who was flailing around on the ground trying to stand. 

Beside the fire, the figure in scarlet pushed her hood back exposing exquisite features and a mane of hair that drew color from the flames. She raised the silver goblet above her head, then tipped the contents into the fire. 

"Man, ain't she somethin'," breathed Vern, watching transfixed as the woman's porcelain skin and auburn hair seemed to glow in the flickering light. 

"And that'll be about enough of that," snarled Mrs. Simplot, recognizing a look in her husband's eyes she hadn't seen directed at herself in some time. "I'm callin' the cops," and she marched back into her house. 

"Damn," snorted Billyray, brushing off the seat of his jeans. "Just when things was gittin' good." 

* * * * "They're witches," Mrs. Simplot confided in a whisper. "They're holdin' some kinda black-magic meetin' over there." 

"Witches?" said Detective Ray Vecchio. 

"Yep," agreed her husband. 

"They're witches alright. No tellin' what kinda evil they're up to." Mrs. Simplot confirmed indignantly. 

"Evil?" said the Detective. 

"Yep, they probably kill cats and chickens and drink the blood," she expounded. 

"Eeuuww!" Vecchio couldn't help it. "What in the world are you people talking about?" 

"Go on over there and arrest 'em," urged Mrs. Simplot. "Before they does somethin' awful." 

"Right," said the cop, shaking his head. It was ten-thirty on a Friday night and the moon was full. It was gonna be a real long shift. 

* * * * "Come in Detective," said the lady in red. "We're just finishing our monthly club meeting." 

Ray slid his badge back into his jacket pocket and followed the scarlet clad women inside. The interior of the old house was a surprise. It must have looked almost exactly like this seventy years ago when it was new. The oak woodwork glowed in golden tones accenting the soft colors of the wallpaper. Antique rugs in muted shades of red and blue covered the hardwood floors. 

"Nice place," Vecchio commented. 

"Well, ladies," she said spreading her arms to encompass the group of women seated on the parlor floor. "A detective has dropped by to pay us a visit." 

"How nice," said another of the women, rising from the floor. "Let's have coffee, shall we? Join us Detective?" 

"Nah, I have to well, maybe just a little." He surveyed the women seated on the living room floor. They were all dressed oddly in long, pale colored robes. He judged their ages to be between twenty-five and thirty-five. All were attractive, some extremely so. These certainly were not his idea of witches. 

It was almost thirty minutes and several cups of coffee later that Detective Vecchio got around to the reason for his visit. "Your neighbor filed a complaint said you're practicing some kinda witchcraft in the backyard." He looked around the circle of female faces all gazing back at him, smiling serenely. 

"We're not exactly witches, Ray may I call you that? And, I don't believe we were breaking any laws," said Maryellen Moonstoneher legal name she'd assured the policeman. 

"City ordinance two-sixty-seven-point-oh-four prohibits a fire within the city limits. There's a seventy-five-dollar fine for ." 

"Oh...we really weren't aware of the ordinance. You won't give us a ticket, will you, Ray?" her pale blue eyes searched the detective's. 

"No, of course not," Ray would have promised her anything as he gazed into those fathomless blue orbs. "Just, um . . . well, don't start any more fires in the backyard." 

"Absolutely not," Maryellen assured him. "Oh, and Ray, before you leave, would you do me one teeny-tiny favor?" She crossed the room and retrieved her purse from the hall table. Withdrawing a much folded yellow paper, she pressed it into the detective's hand. 

Ray glanced down at the folded paper. "It's a traffic ticket," he said. 

"They should never have given me that ticket," said Maryellen, squeezing the policeman's hand and focusing her unblinking gaze on his. 

"No, of course not," he mumbled. "I'll take care of it." 

Outside in the frosty October evening, Ray Vecchio shook his head like a man trying to keep himself awake. He could hear, or maybe feel, the strangest humming sound inside his head, like tuneless music. And there was an overwhelming, all encompassing sensation of serenity. He climbed into his Buick and sat for a moment, watching the lighted windows of the house he had just left. Then he started the car and drove slowly back to the 27th Precinct. 

* * * "Whataya know about witches, Fraser?" Detective Vecchio asked the man seated across the desk. 

"Not a great deal, I'm afraid," answered RCMP Constable Benton Fraser. 

"Really?" It wasn't often that Fraser admitted no knowledge of any subject. 

"Why do you ask, Ray?" 

"I met some last night," Ray said. 

Fraser watched the detective toy with a yellow traffic citation, smoothing then refolding it repeatedly. "Interesting," Fraser began guardedly. This sounded suspiciously like the lead-in to some joke Ray intended to play on him. 

"Ray," Elaine Besbriss called from her desk. "You've got a phone call. Some guy named Vernon Simplot." 

Mr. Simplot sounded agitated, "Get back over here right away," he began without preamble. "My wife's threatenin' to get her old shotgun out and blast them witches." 

"Calm down, Mr. Simplot, why does your wife wanna shoot the neighbors?" 

"They've done gone and put a spell on us," Vern said. "Hurry, 'for Arlene finds her birdshot." * * * * Mr. Simplot was waiting at the front door of his home. "Come on in," he motioned the detective and his friend inside. "Arlene's still down the basement lookin' fer the shotgun shells." 

Just inside the threshold, both the detective and the Mountie stopped. The walls, ceilings, furniture, floors, in fact every surface in the room was covered with black beatles. Ray backed up till he was standing just outside the door. "Eeuuww, what are they?" he said, reaching up to scratch his neck. He felt as though the insects were crawling inside his clothing. 

"Leptocoris trivittatus, Ray, the common box elder bug," said the Mountie, plucking one off the door casing and studying it closely. "They frequently become a problem this time of year when their host trees go dormant." 

"The witch sent 'em," said Simplot matter-of-factly. "She called us last 

night, after you left. Said she wasn't happy about us callin' the law on her and her friends. Said we'd regret it." 

Fraser and Vecchio exchanged glances. "You're tellin' me you believe your neighbor put some kinda bug-curse on you?" asked Ray, still standing well outside the front door. 

Mr. Simplot never got an opportunity to answer that question. His stout wife lumbered into the room, brandishing a rusted shotgun and a dusty box of shells. "Gonna put a stop to this voodoo crap," she said. 

Lifting the weapon from Mrs. Simplot's grasp as she passed, Constable Fraser attempted to interject a note of reason. "Ma'am, let's take a moment and discuss your situation." 

Arlene made a grab for the shotgun, but her reflexes were slow and her reach was short, the gun was already being handed to the Chicago cop. "You two cain't stop me," she growled. "I gotta make that witch take the curse off this house." 

"Ok, Mrs. Simplot, you gotta gun-owner's card?" asked Detective Vecchio, trying to slide back the weapon's rusty bolt to check the chamber. 

Arlene looked at her husband, then back at the cop. Finally she shook her head. 

"Mr. Simplot, your wife will have to come downtown with us. Meanwhile, I suggest you call the Orkin man," advised the detective pulling the disgruntled Arlene outside where he could handcuff her, safely out of reach of the crawly house guests. "Lucky you didn't try and shoot this thing. Probably would've blown up in your face," Ray added as he passed the rusted antique back to the Mountie. The lace curtains at the center, second story window of the house behind the Simplot's moved almost imperceptibly. "Who's the guy in the red coat?" asked Maryellen Moonstone's sister Xarina. 

"I think we should find out," answered Maryellen, carefully studying the gorgeous man in red walking beside Detective Vecchio. Both sisters smiled benignly as they watched their neighbor being dragged down her sidewalk and placed in the backseat of Ray's Riviera. 

Witches of Southwyck (part 2) 

Ray was finishing the report on his late evening arrest of a prostitute who'd tried to solicit him outside the 27th Precinct building. "Spell your last name," he said to the young woman seated beside his desk. After typing in the name, he couldn't resist one last question. "Why 're you tryin' to turn tricks outside a police station?" 

"Hey, some of these guys are my best customers," she said looking around the room. 

Two detectives dropped their eyes and stared determinedly at their desk blotters. 

"Ray," Elaine handed him a piece of paper with a name and an address on Southwyck Street. "We got a complaint about a bonfire burning dangerously close to the neighbor's garage. It's right next door to that witchcraft call you went out on a few days ago. You wanna take it, or should I send it down for one of the uniformed officers?" 

"No," snapped Ray, annoyed yet somehow reluctant to let another cop handle this particular call. "I'll take it myself." As he grabbed his coat and hat, he wondered why he felt compelled to check out this complaint. His shift was almost over and he was tired and hungry and looking forward to the Blackhawk's game on TV. He should really call Benny and let him know he wouldn't be meeting him for dinner, but somehow, that didn't seem important. 

He met Fraser on the stairs on his way down to the car. "Benny, I meant to call you, I gotta check out a complaint." Ray began. 

"Understood, Ray. Perhaps I'll just ride along with you." 

"Whatever," Ray shrugged and hurried on past his friend. 

There were eight people milling around on the sidewalk in front of Maryellen Moonstone's house when Ray pulled the Buick up to the curb. Even from the front of the house, he could see the dancing firelight reflected off the neighboring buildings. The sounds of chanting and the wail of some sort of eerie musical instrument drifted on the cold October wind. 

"Which one of you called in the complaint?" the detective addressed the group. 

"I did, I'm Maude Arlington," said a diminutive, white-haired women. "That fire's only a few feet from my garage." 

"Yeah," added another woman. "And that bunch of wacky broads is scarin' our kids half to death." 

"Ok, folks, we'll handle the situation. You all go on home." Ray started around the house in the direction of the fire, Fraser following closely. 

At the rear of the house, several women circled a roaring fire, chanting words unfamiliar to either policeman. Another woman sat cross-legged on the picnic table, blowing into a flute-like instrument. 

"Uh-oh," murmured Maryellen Moonstone. Catching sight of the approaching men, she broke off her chant and halted her dance step. The other dancers collided into one another and tried to keep their balance, teetering dangerously close to the flames. 

"Detective," welcomed Maryellen, giving him her biggest smile. "We're so 

glad you could drop by again." 

Before Ray could speak, the earsplitting scream of sirens announced the arrival of the Chicago Fire Department. Within minutes the backyard was a chaotic scene of running firemen, snaking hoses, and water everywhere. 

Surveying the sodden yard in disgust, Maryellen took the two policemen's arms and guided them through the back porch and into her cozy house. The rest of the women seemed to melt into the shadows and disappear. 

"I thought we'd agreed no more fires," Ray began speaking in the kitchen of Maryellen's house. 

"We really *need* a fire, Ray," Maryellen explained. "It's difficult to hold our, um . . . special emergency meetings without one." 

Benton Fraser was gazing around the room with interest. Dried herbs and plants hung from racks and rods on the ceilings. Unusual shaped bottles filled with colored liquids were arranged on shelves and counters. A rather large, ebony cat watched him through half closed yellow eyes from a rocking chair in the corner of the room. 

Reaching up, the Mountie fingered a vine-like herb with small, withered berries still clinging to its stems. "Nightshade?" he asked. 

"Yes, it makes a wonderful sleep-inducing syrup. Of course one must be very careful not to take too much." Maryellen supplied. 

Fraser raised his eyebrows and went back to his inspection of the herb collection. 

"Look, Ms Moonstone," Ray began again earnestly. "Like I told you before, you can't have a bonfire in your yard. The whole side of Mrs. Arlington's garage is blistered and charred." 

"Never mind, Ray, how about some nice tea?" said Maryellen, completely ignoring the fire issue. 

The detective didn't protest when she seated him at the kitchen table and began to prepare the brew. 

The porch door slammed and Xarina entered the room, one of the firemen, dripping soot colored water and looking extremely put-out, trailing along in her wake. Xarina led the man to the chair beside Ray and shoved his shoulders until he sat. "Feed him, he's very cross," she stated. 

For several minutes the homey sound of crunching pastry and sipped tea filled the little kitchen. The women leaned against the counter, smiling complacently, while the three men enjoyed the food as though this was a purely social visit. When they had finished every crumb of baked goods, all three men slouched comfortably in their chairs smiling contentedly. 

"What were you saying about the fire?" Xarina asked the fireman. 

That man just grinned and shook his head unable to remember precisely what he'd wanted to say about the near destruction of the neighbor's garage. 

Meanwhile, Maryellen was busy bagging goodies to send back to the firehouse with the men who were just finishing rolling their hoses and reloading their truck. 

Sitting at the table, Ray was again experiencing that peculiar feeling of contentment and the accompanying reluctance to leave. Very shortly, however, he found himself being ushered out onto the sidewalk with his two male companions, heading back toward the car and the fire engine. From the lighted doorway, the sisters waved and called goodnight. "They put somethin' in the food, Benny. I got the strangest humming in my ears and I feel kinda weird." 

Fraser nodded, he too was experiencing the not unpleasant humming and the soothing feeling of content. He rubbed his temples and attempted to clear his head but the pleasant fog remained making him lethargic. A nagging little voice from somewhere deep inside his conscious was telling him he should be concerned about being drugged and manipulated, but he was finding that voice rather annoying and determinedly ignored it. "I saw you put something into the Mounties coat pocket," said Xarina to her sister. 

"Mm," said Maryellen. "I put a few drops of monkshood oil on my hanky and slipped it into his pocket. I mean for him to come back alone. I find I have a rather strong desire to get to know him better" 

Both women smiled. Monkshood oil on lace was a powerful spell. When a man touched that scrap of cotton, he would be drawn inexorably back to the last woman who had touched the hankie. Without a doubt, Maryellen would soon be seeing her Mountie again. 

* * * * 

Back at the 27th Precinct, Fraser drank bitter vending machine tea and waited for Ray to finish the report and drive him back to his apartment. Jack Huey was sniffling noisily and fumbling for a handkerchief. When Fraser reached into his pocket and passed the detective his own neatly ironed and folded handkerchief, a small scrap of lace fell to the floor unnoticed and lay partially hidden beneath his chair. Later that evening Detective Barbara Doyle would find that lovely square of lace and tuck it into her own purse, thinking what exquisite workmanship had gone into sewing the dainty little hanky. * * * * 

And at the house next door to the bonfire scene, the elderly Mrs. 

Arlington stood on her glassed-in porch and surveyed her collection of African violets. Forty-two plants that had been blooming splendidly the day before, were brown and withered. "The witches," she whispered to herself, afraid even in her own home they might overhear her. Well, she knew better than to complain again, better to try and ignore the goings-on next door and simply file an insurance claim for the damage to the garage. * * * * 

The Kroger Supermarket was nearly empty at seven o'clock in the morning. Detective Barbara Doyle pushed her shopping cart through the produce section, stopping to check the melons and pick out several tart granny smith apples. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her weekly shopping list and glanced down the neatly written column. 

"Excuse me, I think you dropped this," said a voice behind the detective. 

Turning, Barbara found a stock boy holding out the tiny square of lace she'd found on the floor of the precinct last night. 

"Thank you. It must have fallen ." She never finished whatever she'd been about to say. A jolt, not unlike an electric shock, seemed to spread from the young man's hand to hers when she grasped the hankie. For a long moment, her whole body tingled from the shockwaves. The detective stared deeply into the very young man's hazel eyes and knew she'd never experience anything so earth-shattering in her entire forty-six years of life. 

The eighteen-year-old stock boy was being similarly affected. As he returned Barbara's gaze, their fingers still touching, he knew beyond a doubt, this was the woman he was meant to spend eternity with. 

When the pair finally recovered something of their scattered senses, they joined hands and leaving Barbara's half filled shopping cart and the stock-boy's box of orangesthey walked out of the Kroger and into the sunrise of a brand-new day, their eyes still locked on each others. * * * * 

The moon was a tiny sliver through the leafless trees. Maryellen Moonstone held the dead chicken gingerly in front of her. Her otherworldly clothing was slightly marred by the addition of the plastic gloves. "I am not holding this thing with my bare hands," she had informed her sister in no uncertain terms. 

"You're ruining the effect," whispered Xarina in disgust. "And if the others find out you bought that chicken from Herman the butcher and didn't kill it yourself like the ritual book says, well," she didn't need to finish the sentence. 

"A dead chicken's a dead chicken," responded Maryellen, pragmatically. "This one from the meat market will work just as well." She smirked, remembering Herman the butcher's confusion when she insisted he leave the feathers and feet on the headless stewing hen. 

As a concession to the local ordinance, tonight's fire was a small one, contained within a topless metal drum. The assembled women thought the scene had lost a lot of its romance, but having the cops and the fire department interrupt every meeting simply wasn't acceptable. 

"We have gathered here this night to cast a spell for our sister, Crystalline." Maryellen intoned, holding the bird high before her. "Crystalline caught her husband in a compromising situation with his secretary. It is Crystalline's fondest wish that her husband regret his little indiscretion and return home immediately." 

The ladies around the fire nodded in agreement and the flutist began to play her eerie music. In a language as old as the fire, the women called on their sister spirits to help them right this wrong. * * * * 

At Lucerne's, a fine downtown restaurant, Stephen Taylor was staring deeply into the eyes of his female companion. Stephen was not a terribly attractive man, in fact several people had remarked on his resemblance to the actor who'd played the role of Barney Fife in the old television series. Frankly, he still couldn't believe his luck. His twenty-one-year-old, drop-dead-gorgeous secretary had agreed to have an affair with him. It was unfortunate that his wife, Crystalline, had found out about his little fling; however, he didn't intend to let that stand in his way. After all, it wasn't every day that someone like Barney Fife had an affair with someone who looked like one of the Baywatch babes. 

The Baywatch look-alike sipped her expensive champagne and watched him as he took a bite of his escargot. The first indication that something was amiss was when Stephen pointed to his throat and began to make grotesque faces. Soon he was thrashing around on the floor, holding his throat and looking extremely uncomfortable. 

When the paramedics wheeled him from the restaurant, Stephen was turning an alarming shade of blue and his eyes were rolling upward into his skull. The statuesque blond stood on the sidewalk in front on Lucerne's and watched her date being loaded into the back of an emergency vehicle. 

Tapping her trim little foot in irritation, she wondered how in the heck was she supposed to get home. She should have lifted the car keys out of Steve's pocket while he was rolling around on the floor. 

Witches of Southwyck (part 3) 

Maryellen's potions *never* failed to work. This was very disturbing. The herbal oil she'd applied to her lace hankie should have brought the handsome Mountie back to her house in a very short time. Well, she'd have to try some stronger magic. She slipped a tiny, handsewn red jacket carefully onto a wax figure. Removing the brass-colored button from her pocket she studied the insignia. He'd been so befuddled when he left her kitchen a few nights ago, he hadn't even noticed when she'd plucked the button from his tunic and slipped her own hankie into his pocket. 

Maryellen hummed tunelessly as she tied the button and wax figure into a square of silk with some dried flowers, feathers, and a jet black stone. Binding the small bundle in scarlet ribbon, she lay it beside a silver bell. 

* * * * "I seem to have lost a button," Benton Fraser told Jackie Chen, the dry-cleaner's son. "Perhaps you could sew this one on in its place." He handed the young man the extra button. 

"Sure," the boy said absently. Jackie hadn't even heard the customer's request because the Stone Temple Pilots were blasting from the Walkman directly into his ears. "Whatever." 

Fraser nodded to the elderly widow, Mrs. Frinkman, as he passed her on his way out. As she piled her weekly dry-cleaning on the counter, she watched Jackie trying on Constable Fraser's uniform jacket. "Young man, you take that off this instant. That is not your coat," she said tugging at the sleeve. 

A jolt strong enough to short out the Walkman sizzled from Mrs. Frinkman's fingertips into young Jackie Chen, causing a momentary paralysis. When he recovered his senses, he vaulted over the counter that separated him from the object of his desire. "Please, ma'am, may I walk you home," he said, taking her hand reverently and steering her toward the door. Mrs. Frinkman left her cane propped against the counter as she exited on the arm of her new beau. 

* * * * 

"Detective Ray Vecchio is in charge of cases involving witchcraft," smirked Elaine. "That's him there, at the back of the room." She pointed to the man leaning back in his chair, feet crossed on his desktop, eyes closed. 

"Hey, I got a complaint," the man in the mechanic's uniform shook Ray's shoulder with enough force to almost topple him from his chair. 

"Wha," the detective said groggily. He'd been the big winner at last night's poker game, but today, he didn't feel much like a winner. Rubbing his eyes, "Sit down, we gotta fill out a form." 

"My wife gave some woman five hundred dollars to make our cocker spaniel an amulet." began Bob the mechanic. "That's gotta be against the law, right." 

"Yeah, I suppose," said the detective trying to push the report form into his antique typewriter. "Who'd she buy the amulet from?" 

"Some weird gal named Maryellen Moonstone," supplied Bob. "My wife thinks this Maryellen's a gen-u-ine witch or somethin'." 

Ray paused, form poised above the typewriter. "Why would she buy an amulet for a cocker spaniel?" he asked in disbelief 

"Dunno," said Bob, shrugging his shoulders. "My wife said Rocky that's our dog anyway she said Rocky ain't been happy lately. Said he needed some kinda charm or somethin'." 

Ray Vecchio sighed inwardly. He didn't want to investigate this complaint but he couldn't not investigate it either. He felt an uncontrollable, inexplicable urge to protect Maryellen and her group from the consequences of their own actions. "So you're telling me your wife paid five hundred bucks for a happiness-potion for a dog?" 

"Yep," confirmed Bob. "And I want my money back." * * * * 

"I can deal with serial killers, junkies, thieves but I'm havin' a hard time dealin' with these witches, Fraser," complained Ray Vecchio as they drove home after a Blackhawk's game. 

"What, exactly, have they done now, Ray?" the Mountie asked. 

"Maryellen Moonstone sold some woman a magic-dog-potion," Ray said with an absolutely straight face. 

Fraser looked at his friend closely, he seemed to be sincere. "That's, um . . . is that against the law?" 

"How the hell should I know. I guess it's some kinda fraud," Ray replied in exasperation. 

"What did Miss Moonstone say?" Fraser asked. 

"Well, she said something about the dog being reincarnated from an Egyptian slave and that the dog was having trouble resolving some issues from his past," Ray tried to remember exactly what Maryellen had told him. 

"Ahhh." 

"By the way, she asked me to give you this," said the detective pulling a small box from the pocket of his overcoat. 

"It appears to be . . . " the Mountie paused to study the small object, 

". . . chocolate candy?" 

Diefenbaker reached forward from the rear seat and neatly plucked the chocolate from his master's fingers. The morsel was swallowed whole before Fraser could shift in his seat and retrieve it. The wolf retreated to the side of the car farthest from Fraser and prepared for the lecture he knew was coming. It had been worth it, he thought, licking his lips. 

* * * * 

Fraser rolled out of his cot in one smooth motion. The sun shown through his window, a crisp fall breeze wafted in. A beautiful day. Something was missing the wolf. "Diefenbaker," he called. He looked behind the room's only furniture, no wolf. He checked the fire escape, no wolf. No wolf in the hall, no wolf in the bathroom. Hm. He dressed quickly and went outside to search for animal. 

Meanwhile, several miles away in a quite neighborhood: "Get off my feet, you overgrown bag of fuzz," snapped Maryellen Moonstone shoving at the wolf laying across her shoes. The animal had arrived two hours ago and attached himself to her like a siamese twin. Maryellen wasn't sure about the significance of this, but she had her suspicions. 

A large black cat perched on top of the refrigerator, back perpetually arched, fur standing on end, glaring balefully at the large wolf. "Shhhh, pet," Maryellen soothed her unhappy friend, "we'll be rid of this beast very soon." 

Diefenbaker looked up at the woman through worshipful eyes and whined. 

* * * * 

Detective Vecchio found Fraser several blocks from his apartment asking passers-by if they'd seen a silver wolf lately. 

"Fraser, get in," Ray called from his car. "Miss Moonstone called me, says she has a large wolf in her kitchen." 

Although relieved to hear his pet was found, Fraser had a bad feeling about Diefenbaker's whereabouts. "This can't be a good sign, Ray. Why would Diefenbaker go visiting a witch?" In the cozy little herb-lined kitchen, Diefenbaker studiously ignored Fraser and remained glued to Maryellen. The Mountie tried everything from cajolery to threats to bribes, but nothing would detach the wolf from the woman's side. 

Maryellen busied herself at the stove, brewing an herbal tea, trying not to trip over the furry lump under her feet. "Sit down and have a cup, Constable Fraser," she urged. 

Fraser eyed the brew suspiciously. Warning bells were going off in his head. 'Don't eat, drink, touch anything,' a small voice whispered to him. 'Run'. "Thank you, ma'am, but I'll just get my wolf and be going." 

"Perhaps your pet will feel like going with you *after* you drink your tea." The woman held the cup out to him smiling like someone with a secret. 

"Miss Moonstone, Diefenbaker ate a piece of candy meant for me," Fraser began, confirming Maryellen's suspicions. "I'd appreciate it if you would give him the antidote." 

Maryellen considered the matter for a moment. She could deny it. On the other hand, she certainly did not intend to hold the oafish wolf hostage in exchange for the man. There had to be a better way to achieve her goal. Reaching into her cupboard, she withdrew a tin of candies. "Here," she fed one to the wolf. 

Picking the animal up bodily, Fraser carried him out to Ray's Buick and dumped him unceremoniously into the back seat. For several blocks, Diefenbaker stared longingly out the rear window, then he seemed to perk up considerably and sat forward, panting into Rays's ear as they drove home. Apparently the antidote had kicked in. 

"Hm, that one's very clever . . . " mused Maryellen, ". . . for a man," she added sarcastically as she watched *her* Mountie depart carrying his pet. "I can't imagine why he's resisting so hard." Her lovely forehead was creased in a puzzled frown. 

Witches of Southwyck (part 4) 

Another emergency meeting of the Southwyck circle was called that Friday evening. A cold rain and temperatures near freezing forced the women to convene their meeting inside the house. White candles, blue candles, red and purple and black candles covered every horizontal surface in the old parlor. Tables, windowsills, piano, bookcase, all held flickering candles. Thirteen women sat in a circle, holding hands, singing softly. 

"Our sister, Zephyr, has been passed-over for a promotion she deserved. We gather here tonight to right this wrong." Maryellen addressed her group. "Zephyr was next in line for the anchor- chair at WBRC. The station manager gave the position to Mike Little." 

Zephyr nodded in confirmation, a large tear sliding down her flawless cheek. "He lisps," she said, shaking her hooded head. 

Twelve other heads nodded in sympathy. They were here to make sure Zephyr got the job as anchor-woman. 

"What do you think, ladies? Warts?" 

Heads nodded again. 

Maryellen reached deep into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a small vile. Shaking the contents she emptied them into a silver cup. Dipping 

her finger into the liquid, she began to smear it on an eight-by-ten photograph of the newsman, Mike Little. 

* * * * 

At WBRC Television, Mike Little was preparing to go on the air in his first newscast as anchorman. He paused in front of the mirror to inspect his hair one last time. A huge, disfiguring brown lump had popped out at the end of his nose. He sat down in the closest chairsuddenly feeling faint. Yes, there was another ugly lump on his chin, and another on his lip. Poor Mike closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to look into the mirror any more. * * * * 

"I needed that five-hundred dollars to buy a new fishing rod and reel," Bob said. 

"How can you be so selfish?" cried his wife, Ariela. "Rocky is *family* and he needed that magic charm." She hugged her little spaniel and glared at her husband. 

"Nobody else would have been stupid enough to pay that much money for some hocus-pocus for a dog," Bob argued. 

"Don't you call me stupid!" shouted Ariela, storming out of the living room and into the bedroom, dog still in her arms. 

Bob heard the bedroom door slam and the telltale click of the lock. It looked like he'd be sleeping on the sofa tonight. He sat for a few minutes, thinking about how that weirdo, Maryellen Moonstone, had taken advantage of his simpleminded wife. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. "I'll get my money back," he said rising from the sofa and heading for the door. "If the cops won't help me, I'll just go and get it myself." 

It was only a three-block walk from his house to Maryellen's place on Southwyck Street. He stood on her front porch for a while letting the anger build while he told himself that she was some kind of con-artist that deserved to be taught a lesson. 

The lady's meeting had broken up an hour ago, only Xarina, Zephyr, and Maryellen remained, drinking tea and chatting. The thundering pounding caused all three women to jump. 

When Maryellen opened the door, Bob came inside in a rush, shoving her hard against the wall. "I want my damn money back!" he shouted at her. 

"You've made a very serious mistake," Maryellen said cooly. "Leave now and I will forget this incident." 

Bob laughed nervously, he'd never tried to intimidate a woman he wasn't married to. "If you don't give me my money, you'll be sorry," he said a little hysterically. Stepping forward he shoved Maryellen again, this time sending her sprawling onto the floor. 

"Call the police," Xarina told Zephyr. "I'll get your money," she said to the man. "How much do you want?" 

He jerked the purse from Xarina's hands and scooped out the cash inside. He counted eight- hundred dollars. Well, he'd just take it all, he decidedfor the trouble they'd caused him. "You bitches stay away from my wife," he hissed throwing the purse at Maryellen, who still sat on the floor. He backed through the door and found himself outside again, heading for home at a brisk pace. 

Maryellen was having a difficult time standing, her ankle had apparently been injured in the fall. "He will surely regret that," she remarked as she hobbled toward a chair. 

"I called the police, they should be here any minute," said Zephyr, hovering over the injured woman, wondering what to do next. 

* * * * Ray was finishing off the best T-bone he'd had in weeks when his cell phone rang. 

"Ray, I knew you'd want to take this one yourself," Elaine's voice sounded amused "Your witches are in trouble. . .again. The guy who was in here a couple days ago filing the complaint just broke into their house and robbed them." 

With an oath, Ray snapped the cell phone closed. "Ok, Fraser, more trouble from the ladies over on Southwyck. We'd better get over there." 

"Ray, perhaps you could just drop me off at my apartment. It won't be much out of your way," Fraser had no intention of ever visiting those particular ladies again. 

"Not on your life, Benny. I ain't goin' into that haunted house alone." 

When they arrived, they found Maryellen, her foot propped on a stool, the other two women fussing over her. "Don't worry, gentlemen, he won't have gotten far," Maryellen assured the policemen. 

"Precisely what does that mean?" Fraser wanted to know. 

"Oh, I just have a feeling you'll probably catch him near the park, about a block from here." Maryellen commented, rubbing her sore ankle. 

The rain had stopped but a fine mist continued wetting the two men before they reached the park. It was very dark there. No overhead street lamps brightened the moonless night. 

"This is a damn wild-goose chase," grumbled Detective Vecchio turning his coat collar up to minimize the moisture seeping down the back of his neck. 

The Mountie stopped abruptly, dragging Ray to a halt beside him. "Do you hear that?" he said, his eyes searching the deeper shadows beneath the 

trees. 

"Help me," it was barely a whisper. 

"It's over there," Ray said moving cautiously toward the voice. 

"Whoever it is, he's up in this tree," Fraser stated, peering up into the leafless branches. 

With a crash, an oath, and a groan of pain, Bob descended from the tree and landed in a heap at Fraser's feet. "You guys gotta help me," he moaned, clinging to the Mounties leg. 

"Get a grip, man," Ray said as he attempted to pry the frightened man off his friend. 

Fraser finally managed to shake himself free, and stepped back several paces. "Why on earth were you hiding in that tree?" he asked. 

"She sent a demon after me," Bob whispered. "It came outta nowhere and attacked me." 

Fraser was studying the man's face. Even in the darkness, the cuts and scratches were obvious. "You say something attacked you? Was it a dog?" 

"It was a demon!" Bob shouted. He looked fearfully over his shoulder. He was afraid he might provoke it again by speaking too loudly. 

All three men stared into the darkness and listened. The wind sighed around them sending leaves swirling with soft rustling sounds. The tree branches rattled and somewhere close by a gate with a rusty hinge creaked. 

"Let's get outta here," Ray suggested propelling the unresisting Bob before him. 

As the three walked back the way they'd come, a car turned the corner and came toward them, temporarily illuminating the area. Off to the side, near a planting of shrubs, two eyes glowed redly in the car's headlights. 

Fraser stopped, "It's Maryellen's cat, Ray. I recognize it from the last time we were at her house. It looks . . . larger, somehow." 

The hair was standing up on the back of Ray's neck. Not bothering to answer, he shoved his prisoner into a faster walk. The two block journey back to Maryellen's seemed endless. All three men kept glancing over their shoulders . . . just in case. 

* * * * 

"I need you to take me to the emergency room," Maryellen told Fraser. "I think my ankle is broken." 

"Perhaps your sister or your friend could drive you," Fraser suggested. 

"No, I need *you* to take me," Maryellen repeated clearly. "I can't walk. I need a big, strong man to lean on," she added giving him a helpless look. 

"You go ahead, Fraser. I gotta get this guy downtown and book him," Ray didn't seem to mind throwing his friend to the wolves, so to speak. 

Trying not to appear reluctant, Fraser gathered Maryellen's car keys and helped her out to her car. "Cook County General is the closest emergency room," he suggested. 

The ER was a lively place on Friday night. Fraser was fascinated by the variety passing in and out of the waiting room. Maryellen, however, didn't care to have his attention wandering too far from herself. Holding tightly to his hand, she kept reminding him how much pain she was suffering and how bravely she was enduring it. Fraser's hand was growing numb, but he didn't complain. He sat stiffly beside her and agreed with every comment she made. 

Finally a nurse escorted them into a curtained area and directed Maryellen to sit on a high table. After another short wait, a tall doctor with thinning hair and wire rimmed glasses entered the room. 

"I'm Dr. Greene, I understand you've injured your ankle," he bent and began to examine Maryellen's leg. 

The exam took a long time. The doctor carefully manipulated her ankle, her foot, her leg. Maryellen watched him closely. His hands were large but gentle. His voice seemed so very pleasant and he smiled at her frequently, reassuringly. It wasn't until the Mountie moved slightly that Maryellen even remembered his presence. She looked at the man standing patiently beside her. He was gorgeous, possibly the most delicious man Maryellen had ever seen. The doctor, on the other hand, wasn't as handsomehis hair was thinning, his face pleasant but not beautiful. Well, she had a recipe that would grow hair thick as grass in a matter of weeks, and the glasses were kinda cute. Yes, this doctor was special, he had a qualityshe couldn't quite put her finger on it. And of course rich, doctors were all rich, that would be very nice. 

"We'll need to keep you here for x-rays," Dr. Green was saying. "It doesn't seem to be broken, but we want to make sure." He was writing in her chart. 

Maryellen made up her mind. The Mountie was difficult, the doctor would be easier. "Benton, go home," she said. 

"If you're sure," Fraser was halfway to the exit. 

All the way home, Benton wondered if Maryellen was angry with him. And if she was, what would she do about it? Well, there was nothing he could do but go home . . . and wait. 

End Marna sparrow21@juno.com 


End file.
